


Year Zero

by divisionten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Could be read as platonic or ship, Fluff, Gen, Good Omens Secret Santa, Job Swap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divisionten/pseuds/divisionten
Summary: for the tumblr good omens secret santa exchange, kimmigawa asked for fluff.Aziraphale and Crowley make some new traditions for their first holiday season post Apocawhoops. 100% pure fluff; can be read gen or ship.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 22





	Year Zero

“It’s nice for Christmas and Channukah to fall at the same time,” Aziraphale said warmly, as he twisted on an LED representing the shamash before flicking three more lights on for the third night*.

_***(After the burnt bookshop, Aziraphale made the sole concession to trade in any candles for LED variants. He could always miracle the light as warm as a fire, anyway.)** _

“You know as well as I do that Jesus was actually born on-” Crowley huffed out, annoyed, before being rudely cut off.

“I _**am**_ aware what day Jesus was born on in both the Hebrew and modern Gregorian calendars,” Aziraphale countered, to Crowley’s disdain at the use of the words _**modern**_ and _**Gregorian**_ in the same sentence, “because Gabriel would _**not shut up about it**_.”

Crowley swallowed and looked away. “I’m just impressed you got over the bastard enough to enjoy the holiday.”

“Twinkling lights? Piles of food? Street caroling? Do you honestly think I would pass that up?” Aziraphale asked.

“Also the drunken brawls in the older days,” Crowley added under an un-needed breath.

“It was enjoyable to let of steam once in a while. And the mulled wine was excellent,” Aziraphale pouted as he lit the Christmas tree in the center of the shop with a nod. “How have you been spending the holidays, my dear boy? I don’t think I’ve once ever seen you for winter solstice.”

“Bah.”

“Humbug?” Aziraphale asked with a small smile.

“Well, in the older days I tended to get summoned. Druids, the old pagan cult, what have you. They’d offer me food, sometimes sacrifices. The former was great, the latter… eeeeeeeeh. Some years I still get pulled into a fairy ring or some modern druid’s group. And I know the angels actually are out this time of year, so…” Crowley didn’t finish his sentence, letting it trail off the tip of his tongue. “I just stayed home. I’d either get pulled somewhere in the world or I’d just, well, I’d be in the way.”

“Dear boy, you’re never-”

“What would you have done if Michael barged in Christmas Eve and we were shitfaced in the backroom, Angel?”

“ _ **Oh**_.” Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Quite true. But not this year!”

Crowley perked at this, slinging an arm around Aziraphale. He could do that now.

**_He could do that now._ **

“’S nice, getting sacked.”

“Is indeed. Shall we come up with some new traditions then?”

“Crowley perked a small smile at that. “What did you have in mind, Angel?”

* * *

“Think this one’s yours, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear. The two were bundled head to toe in winter gear- Crowley for warmth and Aziraphale for solidarity, with the added bonus of not needing to use extra miracles to not show their faces on the myriad of security cameras dotting and crisscrossing London in a massive spynet that still made them both a hair uncomfortable.

Sure, they could just not appear on recordings if they didn’t want to be, but that defeated the point of doing things covertly*.

_***(It was almost too easy that way, and they were giggling like schoolchildren playing at being spies, so on the cameras they were.)** _

Crowley wiggled his too-cold nose inside his wrapping of scarves*, and looked at the target in question. A moment later, a store clerk put a clearance sign in the window next to a doll the child had been eyeing, and when the young boy checked his wallet, he had exactly enough to buy his sister’s gift.

_***(chunky, hand knit by a certain bookshop owner who had a lot of time not selling books, and very definitely not miracled into being like the rest of Crowley’s clothes. He could still feel the love in every stitch and he was so, so glad his face wasn’t visible to the outside world or the blush would have been a beacon for half of London)** _

“ _ **Ahem**_. You know what we stay about stealing, dear,” Aziraphale said sternly.

“Oi, it’s from your till. Hardly even call that borrowing.”

“Ah, I do owe you for… hm. The Ritz, last Tuesday.”

“And last night as well.”

“Very well, a repayment then.”

“ _ **Hardly**_. That wasn’t even twenty quid.”

“I’ll pick up that brandy you’ve been going on about then.”

“Well? My score?”

“Points for subtlety, a child’s miracle, and not actually committing any sins. Minus points for nudging a human, who, _**by the way**_ , has free will, and is thus an exceedingly demonic act.”

“Didn’t nudge,” Crowley said with a self-serving grin. “I sensed her worry. She had to get those clearance signs up before the end of the night. Only intervention was shoving that twenty you clearly owed me in the boy’s pocket.”

“You _**w** ** _ily_ old serpent**_.”

“Hardly wiling, no wiles here. Just an angel on duty.” And, because he could, he leaked a small bit of a halo. A human might have been pressed to say the beginnings of a snowfall were causing the lights to glimmer in odd ways, but Aziraphale just elbowed Crowley in the ribs. Crowley jabbed him right back. “Demon’s turn.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve been eyeing my mark for a few minutes now,” Aziraphale replied, with all the smugness of an actual demon.

“Ohhhh?” Crowley asked intently. The two of them hadn’t used their capital-A-Arrangement since the Antichrist was born* and he was almost worried Aziraphale had been out of practice in playing demon when he went somewhere to do blessings and curses for them both.

_***(Too much attention, and not enough time.)** _

“You think I’m out of practice,” Aziraphale accused.

“Angels don’t read minds,” Crowley hissed. “That’s hardly sss- hardly sssp- it’s not _**fair**_ ,” Crowley spat, too cold to mess with unneeded sibilants.

“I’m getting into character, now hush.”

Aziraphale signaled with a hand squeeze, drawing Crowley’s attention to a bickering couple. “She’s been accusing him of cheating, and I can feel from him that she’s quite hit the nail on the head. I know ‘ _ **judge not**_ ’ and all that, but the man _**deserves**_ a spot of comeuppance.”

The man stepped forward, red in the face from bellowing, snapping square on some black ice that had most certainly not been there a moment earlier. He cursed on the way down, before a loud crash echoed through the emptying street.

A quick gust of wind flew southward, from where the man had been, and a scrap of paper fluttered neatly into Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

“He’s broken a very expensive gift for his missus, but sadly, his return receipt,” Aziraphale opened his hand in a flourish, showing off the printout, “is, _**curiously**_ , nowhere to be found. Crowley, be a dear and give it to the poor woman once the man’s been hauled off to the hospital. She’s to get about £5,000 to spend at Harrod’s.”

“Docking points for being nice to the girlfriend,” Crowley sing-songed

“Oh no, dear, I’m making _**you**_ do that part, very demon-like of me. And soon to be ex-wife, I dare say.”

“You _**daaaare saaaay**_ ,” Crowley mocked as he stomped over to the flustered woman, her face torn between worry and enjoying the schadenfreude for what it was.

* * *

“Happy Christmas eve, you damnable devil,” Crowley said, holding up his champagne in a goblet that was easily five or six centuries old*.

_***(Probably older. And by probably, the author could stake their entire life fortune on it.)** _

“’S’not Christmas _**Eve**_ , silly serpent,” Aziraphale drawled back, draped almost as loose as Crowley on the sofa, nearly tipping over his own wineglass. “Past midnight.”

**_*(Technically, one of Elijah’s kiddush cups. Well, he hadn’t been using it, and champagne was wine, wasn’t it? And it was technically Chanukah too, he could just say kiddush and call it a day.)_ **

“Chrissssstmassss _**day**_ ,” Crowley whined. “Pass me a doughnut.”

“ _ **Sofganiyot**_ ,” Aziraphale snorted, shoving the plate of fried dough in his face. “Though I believe this bakery does fry in bacon fat.”

“Ah, yes, wonderfully kossssher, that,” Crowley crowed out, swiping the smallest from the pile getting his fingers caked in powdered sugar for the trouble.

“And next week, a new year.”

“And just a few short days left to make terrible 20-20 vision jokes with your not-customers,” Crowley groaned, clinking chalice to chalice.

“I could close shop and make them with you.”

“No you can’t,” Crowley insisted, suddenly deadly serious. Aziraphale was worried he’d hit a nerve. “’Cause Adam reset it all, didn’t he? You can’t make 2020 jokes with me, ‘cause it’s still year 0.”

“Ah, then does that mean Adam is older than us now? 11 versus 0?”

“Right straight it does. He should be our godfathers,” Crowley sang out.

“I dare say he’s the entire world’s godfather, then.”

“You _**daaaaaare saaaaay**_ ,” Crowley mocked. “Well I _**daaaaaare saaaay**_ you’re right. To the world then? To Adam’s world?”

“And ours.”

“And ours. Happy Christmas, you overstuffed swan.”

“And you, you vain little crow.”


End file.
